


In The Kitchen With You

by scratchedandinked



Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020! [4]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Based (ish) on s5 trailer, Caring and Careful talking down from said panic attack, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hallucinations, M/M, Panic Attacks, Right Before MAG 160
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-06
Updated: 2020-11-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:00:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27421600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratchedandinked/pseuds/scratchedandinked
Summary: Jon kept his back to Martin, as if he couldn’t hear him. Although, Martin was sure that he genuinely couldn’t. His movements were tight and delayed to his turning head, as if a second operator were controlling his hands. Jon pulled a tea box down with as little grip as the paper could take. One nimble but stiff finger pushed on the top tab, popping it open.In a sudden jolt, as if all of Jon’s life came back to him involuntarily, he dropped the box and staggered back, screaming. After a near four years straight of running, escaping, clambering, getting punished, and giving body parts, Jon’s knees weren’t prepared to cushion such a jump and he collapsed. Martin was able to catch him under the arms, just barely.[Jon has a panic attack after feeling like *something* in the Safe House just isn't right]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020! [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893754
Comments: 12
Kudos: 160





	In The Kitchen With You

**Author's Note:**

> Partly for TMA Hurt/Comfort Week posted VERY late, partly inspired by [ this piece of @lylahammar's art](https://lylahammar.tumblr.com/post/631795950633025536/the-romance-of-being-brought-down-from-a-panic). All their art is incredible, definitely give it a peek!
> 
> This is based off of my experiences with panic attacks as related to my ocd, and what calms me down mixed with Jon Styled Soothings.

In the days just before The Change, Jon was on edge. Of course, he didn’t—and couldn’t—Know what was coming. He was clueless to what was hidden in the statements posted by Basira, but Jon still sulked around the house unsettled. And doing a terrible job of hiding it from Martin.

Ever since narrowly escaping the Lonely and making their way to Scotland, Jon had insisted that he keep Martin company. Although, Daisy’s cottage being sized for one person meant that it wasn’t exact possible for them to lose one another going from room to room. Even when Jon was trying to give Martin a reprieve from his company of quiet, gentle page turning, he knew the creaking of the bedroom arm chair was present enough.

In keeping Martin company though, Jon had to continually focus on keeping a smile, one Martin knew was crafted and empty. It was weak, just as Jon was.

While sitting in silent company, Jon’s every breath seemed to be a gasp ready to speak, but he stayed silent. The words bounced back and around in his head, clenching his eyes closed for a moment before pretending he’d merely blinked. Martin was afraid to address it in case prodding and knocking on the Door would make it all worse. And Jon probably knew how much Martin could notice his failures at subtleties. Martin didn’t have to spit in Jon’s face: disregarding Jon’s attempts if only to point out his rolling failures.

One night, while both Martin and Jon were pretending to be asleep for the benefit of the other—who they _knew_ was also awake— Jon finally spoke. The curtains were pulled closed and the lights were all snuffed out. Any speech sounded like a call for help far beyond the bed. Martin could still feel Jon beside him. Still, but trembling in being.

“Something bad is going to happen, isn’t it, Martin?”

“We don’t know that.” Martin said softly, rolling onto his side and feeling for Jon’s chest.

“I don’t think the Door is going to hold. I think it wants to open.”

“Jon, you’re okay. We’re safe.” Martin tried to squint and catch Jon’s outline with his barely adjusted vision. The filter, early muted moonlight, was all he could rely on—and it wasn’t doing him any favors. “You’re just weak right now. Basira is sending you some statements. You’ll feel better.”

“I don’t want to kill you.”

“W-What?”

“Anything that happens. Anything that happens to you will be my fault and I—Martin, I can’t live with that.” Jon whispered, his breath shaking. “If I’m made to be like Eli—Jonah, and I live forever with your blood on my hands…”

“Jon, listen to yourself. You’re planning for something that isn’t even happening. You’re just worrying—”

“The Eye doesn’t deceive, Martin. And even though I don’t have the information, I have a _feeling_ and _urge_ to open that Door _all the way_ and… Martin, I don’t want to. Please don’t let me.” Jon grabbed at Martin’s hand. He didn’t grip it as two hands typically did: acknowledging that the other was of the same shape and type. Jon grabbed Martin’s hand as if it was the last bit of wall on his way of being drug out a door. “Martin, _don’t_ let me.”

“O-Okay.” Martin tried to move his fingers in Jon’s grip. It was thickly scarred, but with the adrenaline, his full grip had come back tighter than ever. “I won’t let you, I won’t— _Ah!_ Jon, you’re sort of, uh, hurting me.”

Jon released Martin like he was pulling a ripcord. His fingers splayed out and away from any touch. Martin couldn’t see where Jon’s hand had moved, but he could feel the heat hovering around him still.

“I’m sorry.” Jon muttered. “I’m sorry, Martin.”

“Tell me what I can do for you.” He couldn’t compel Jon, but perhaps for the sake of Martin’s attempt at love and comfort, Jon could pretend he had no choice but to answer. “Tell me how I can help, Jon.”

“Nothing. There’s nothing. It’s just… waiting I suppose.” Jon’s voice steadied almost unnaturally. Jon moved out from underneath Martin’s hands. The bed shifted in weight quickly, as if Jon had rolled over in a fit of anger.

“Jon?”

“I’m going to make some coffee.” Jon said, still whispering. His feet shuffled along the wood floor.

Jon didn’t need any lighting to find his way to the door. The bare hanging bulbs in the hallway cast a wedge of light over Martin’s unprepared eyes as Jon shouldered his way out of the bedroom. Martin scrambled for his glasses, squinting even with them on to try and acclimate his eyes faster. It was partially a lost effort; Martin still stumbling out of bed as his feet caught on the blankets Jon had cast over him in his quick escape. Such eagerness to leave made Martin wonder if lying in bed with him was any comfort at all. Or maybe Jon had forgotten that things that soothed and stilled him were meant to be safe, not sedative and looming. Jon was meant to stay there and let the warmth hold him.

“You can’t make coffee this late.” Martin tried the baseline argument rather than what he preferred: _you can’t just say foreboding predictions and then leave me alone in bed_.

“I can’t sleep anyway.” Jon said. His voice sounded like it was farther away, almost at the front door. His hands clattered around with mugs as he looked for the one previously made to be an eclectic flower pot: so round and wide, Jon’s hands were barely large enough to cradle it to himself.

“You didn’t try.” Martin said, rounding the short corridor into the kitchen. Jon was holding the mug in his hands, staring down into it. The kettle wasn’t even on. “Jon?”

“Perhaps I’ll make tea.” Jon’s voice was empty and his gaze was blank, barely scanning the cabinets as he reached for the door.

“Jon? Why don’t you stop—come back to bed.”

Jon kept his back to Martin, as if he couldn’t hear him. Although, Martin was sure that he genuinely couldn’t. His movements were tight and delayed to his turning head, as if a second operator were controlling his hands. Jon pulled a tea box down with as little grip as the paper could take. One nimble but stiff finger pushed on the top tab, popping it open.

In a sudden jolt, as if all of Jon’s life came back to him involuntarily, he dropped the box and staggered back, screaming. After a near four years straight of running, escaping, clambering, getting punished, and giving body parts, Jon’s knees weren’t prepared to cushion such a jump and he collapsed. Martin was able to catch him under the arms, just _barely_.

“No, no no no.” Jon panted, grabbing at Martin’s hands. He was nearly trying to push Martin away from him.

“What? What’s wrong, Jon?” Martin hitched Jon up to his feet. “It’s just tea.”

“No! T-That’s not… It’s not.” He panted. Martin let his arm be used as a cross body shield. Jon was trembling, blinking rapidly and trying to be firm in his denial. “That’s not… I saw…”

“Jon, they’re just teabags.” Martin leaned forward, careful not to let go of Jon, and squinted at the small parcels strewn on the floor and counter. “Breakfast, to be exact. Just black tea.”

“But… I saw… I _know_ I saw…”

It never occurred to Martin, in his own certainty of the _normalcy_ of the tea, that Jon’s fear could last longer than any denial. In fact, it never occurred to Martin at all that Jon would be whimpering, clutching Martin out of a new fear: not of death, not of a new End, but of all of it happening _then_ —and Martin being front and center with him. Every grip was met with a short push to inch Martin behind him.

“What? What did you see?”

“S-Spiders. But mostly… _only_ … their eyes.” Jon muttered. “They were all looking at me. They weren’t startled. They were waiting for me—they knew. Why weren’t they startled, Martin? What do they know? What do they _know_?” Jon’s feet slipped along the floor as he tried to track backward to the hall again.

“Nothing, Jon. It’s just tea. It’s just tea.”

“No. They _saw_ —The Eye can’t _lie_ to me. I can’t see things that aren’t _true_. Fear of hallucination isn’t part of— God, it’s Helen. The Spiral… It’s _here_ —or no. It’s Annabelle. God, they’re all here, aren’t they? They’ve all found us—”

“Jon!” Martin cried, turning him to grab his face. “Stop. You have to stop.”

“Martin, I can’t.” Jon’s eyes were wild, trying to look at Martin but unable to stay focused on one thing at a time. His eyes haloed around Martin’s face before looking him in the eye, and then at the space _between_ their eyes. “Something bad is coming. I can _feel_ it.”

“And _I_ think you’re having a panic attack.”

“No—this is just what It does. I have to understand it.” Jon’s entire body was shaking like it _needed_ to collapse. Like it welcomed each wave of shivers as if trying to swallow them.

“No! Jon—look at me. You _don’t_. You think you have to. You don’t have to follow the fear. You can let it leave you. Don’t _feed_ it.”

“I don’t know how—Martin, it won’t stop—”

Before Martin could cut Jon off—try and stop the invasion of his malicious hallucination—Jon’s face dropped. His expression went slack while his body tensed as if being snap-dried.

Jon’s eyes drifted and were lost to Martin. For a moment, Martin feared he’d sunken back into the Lonely—but his hands were still firmly on Jon. He could feel Jon’s entire body tremble and jerk and cower away from his every panicked breath. They were still together, but that didn’t mean Martin hadn’t become a stranger.

“Martin?” Jon turned away, Martin’s hands becoming chains around his arms. “Martin! Martin! Where are you! I’m here!”

“Jon, I’m here.” Martin hoped whispering would slip under his radiating and oscillating panic, and curl around him. “I’m right here.”

“Where is he?” Jon muttered. “God, no no no no. I can’t lose him again— _Martin_!” Searching and screaming for a man directly in front of him was a new kind of unsettling fear Martin had never known. It was like being invisible, but because someone else was lost, not himself.

What was Jon seeing? There was no way it was in focus—his glasses were still at their bedside—and he was barely looking at any one point long enough to take all the details in. The sensory input must’ve been overloading every nerve in Jon’s body, frying his ability to decipher what was genuinely in front of him and what was being put there by a stronger, outside force. Martin just wanted to make him _stop_ —

Breaking the blanket of invisibility, Martin reached for Jon and placed his hand over his eyes. Blindness in the most careful way, but most effective. Hopefully.

“Jon, I’m here. We’re in the kitchen. You tried to make tea. You’re here, with me. It’s quiet and it’s nighttime. You’re safe, Jon.” Martin wasn’t begging, he _wasn’t_ bargaining with a power he didn’t understand. No. He was speaking a language It would _never_ understand. “I love you, Jon. You’re okay. You’re safe—safe here with me.”

Jon’s pulling on Martin’s hand stopped. His fingers splayed over the back of Martin’s hand, reading his veins like a lover’s braille. “Martin? M-Martin… Where are we?”

“Still in the cabin.” Martin was eager, but didn’t want to startle Jon. His body was still stiff, but seemingly as a counter measure to not lean entirely against Martin. Every breath was a a sigh—deflation.

“We are?”

“Yes. You didn’t go anywhere. You’ve been here the whole time.” Martin moved to hold Jon, keeping his one hand over his eyes as he stepped behind him and pulled his body to his chest. Jon arched his back away, much like a shocked animal—a frightened, blind pup—and tried to writhe away, grabbing at Martin’s hand.

“Is that you? M-Martin?”

“It’s me, it’s me. It’s just us.”

Jon pressed his shoulders against Martin’s chest, the sharp angles of his bones pressing in Martin’s thick sweater. His body surged forward. “I can still feel it. We aren’t alone. M-Martin, I—”

“Jon,” Martin fumbled to kiss Jon’s temple, nearly placing his lips on his ear. “we’re fine. There’s no one—just listen:”

Jon stilled in a strained silence: an inaudible call for company. For the forces only Jon had connections with to show themselves, to speak the language he wished he didn’t know. Maybe knew a little better than the one Martin was trying to speak by cradling him, tucked against his body and into the undeniable, protective warmth of his quiet, repetitive: _I love you_.

There was nothing. Not even the wind outside spoke up. Martin lowered his hand, Jon still holding onto it like a small child gripping their blankets, hoisting it to tuck under his chin.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” Jon said it, almost as a promise. If any harm came his way, it would be an accident. A forced hand reaching into their lives across some outside border—or above from some scaling, stalking tower— “What if Elias… The Eye… makes me—"

“The Eye has never… never… _hypnotized_ you before. You’re watching how you get statements. You’re being careful. You’re safe here.”

“I’m safe here.” Jon took the words in with care, folding them in his own mouth and trying to find the softest point. Maybe the weakest point, where his fingers could push through and let Martin’s comfort slip down to the floor.

Martin tightened his arms around Jon’s chest and shoulders. He breathed slowly and almost too loudly— trying to be exemplary for Jon. He was certain, and so were his words.

“You’re safe here—in this house. There’s no way he followed us all the way here.” Martin said. He kissed Jon’s temple, finally, a soft place that was a place of strength. “You just—It was just panic. It’s all gone now. No spiders, no web, no spiral, no… _nothing_.”

Jon closed his eyes as he sighed, his head hanging down. His sniffled, but Martin was sure Jon hadn’t intended to do it so conspicuously. Martin rested his forehead gently against the back of Jon’s head. “Martin,”

“Yes, Jon?”

“I love you too.” He was still fluent in their tongue.

“Let’s get you back in bed.” Martin said with a distracting smile. Jon’s feet were sliding out from under him on the floor. Martin maneuvered Jon and placed his arms over his shoulders, bending his own knees to prepare to lift Jon—there was no way he’d let him walk to bed on his own. “You need your rest; Basira’s post comes tomorrow. Full holiday meal coming. Need your strength.”

**Author's Note:**

> So... who's gonna tell em what happens next?
> 
> find me on tumblr @asheardontape xo


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